Poems by Samuel Johnson

All Poems Original Poems Translations

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Gnothi Seauton

When Scaliger, whole years of labour past,

Beheld his lexicon complete at last

And weary of his task, with wond'ring eyes,

Saw, from words pil'd on words, a fabric rise,

He curs'd the industry, inertly strong,

In creeping toil that could persist so long;

And if, enrag'd he cried, heav'n meant to shed

Its keenest vengeance on the guilty head,

Samuel Johnson

The City of God

CITY of God, how broad and far

Outspread thy walls sublime!

The true thy chartered freemen are,

Of every age and clime.

One holy Church, one army strong,

One steadfast high intent,

One working band, one harvest-song,

Samuel Johnson

Inspiration

LIFE of Ages, richly poured,

Love of God, unspent and free,

Flowing in the Prophet’s word

And the People’s liberty!

Never was to chosen race

That unstinted tide confined;

Thine is every time and place,

Samuel Johnson

Translation of a Speech of Aquileio in the Adriano of Metastasio

Grown old in courts, thou art not surely one

Who keeps the rigid rules of ancient honour;

Well skill'd to soothe a foe with looks of kindness,

To sink the fatal precipice before him,

And then lament his fall with seeming friendship!

Open to all, true only to thyself,

Thou know'st the arts which blast with envious praise,

Which aggravate a fault with feign'd excuses,

Samuel Johnson

To Lady Firebrace

At length must Suffolk beauties shine in vain,

So long renown'd in B—n's deathless strain?

Thy charms at least, fair Firebrace, might inspire

Some zealous bard to wake the sleeping lyre:

For such thy beauteous mind and lovely face,

Thou seem'st at once, bright nymph, a

Muse and Grace

Samuel Johnson

To Myrtilis - The New Year's Offering

Madam,

Long have I look'd my tablets o'er,

And find I've much to thank you for;

Outstanding debts beyond account,

And new - who knows to what amount?

Though small my wealth, not small my soul:

Come, then, at once I'll pay the whole.

Ye powers! I'm rich and will command

Samuel Johnson

To Miss Hickman, Playing the Spinet

Bright Stella, form'd for universal reign,

Too well you know to keep the slaves you gain;

When in your eyes resistless lightnings play,

Awed into love our conquer'd hearts obey,

And yield reluctant to despotic sway;

But when your music soothes the raging pain,

We bid propitious heaven prolong your reign,

We bless the tyrant, and we hug the chain.

Samuel Johnson

To Mrs Thrale on Her Completing Her Thirty-fifth Year

Oft in danger, yet alive,

We are come to thirty-five;

Long may better years arrive,

Better years than thirty-five.

Could philosophers contrive

Life to stop at thirty-five,

Time his hours should never drive

O'er the bounds of thirty-five

Samuel Johnson

The Winter's Walk

Behold, my fair, where'er we rove,

What dreary prospects round us rise,

The naked hill, the leafless grove,

The hoary ground, the frowning skies.

Nor only through the wasted plain,

Stern Winter is thy force confess'd;

Still wider spreads thy horrid reign,

I feel thy power usurp my breast.

Samuel Johnson

Written at the Request of a Gentleman to Whom a Lady Had Given a Sprig of Myrtle

What hopes - what terrors does this gift create?

Ambiguous emblem of uncertain fate.

The myrtle (ensign of supreme command

Consign'd to Venus by Melissa's hand),

Not less capricious than a reigning fair,

Oft favours, oft rejects a lover's prayer.

In myrtle shades despairing ghosts complain:

The myrtle crowns the happy lover's heads,

Samuel Johnson

The Vanity of Wealth

No more thus brooding o'er yon heap,

With avarice painful vigils keep:

Still unenjoy'd the present store,

Still endless sighs are breathed for more.

O! quit the shadow, catch the prize,

Which not all India's treasure buys!

To purchase with heaven has gold the power?

Can gold remove the mortal hour?

Samuel Johnson

To Miss---,

{On her giving the author a gold and silk

net-work purse of her own weaving}.

Though gold and silk their charms unite

To make thy curious web delight,

In vain the varied work would shine,

If wrought by any hand but thine;

Thy hand that knows the subtler art,

To weave those nets that catch the heart.

Samuel Johnson